


The Memoirs of Molly Hooper

by the_noble_bachelorette84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, Eventual Smut, F/M, POV Molly Hooper, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_noble_bachelorette84/pseuds/the_noble_bachelorette84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow Molly Hooper from her first encounter with Sherlock Holmes, to his climactic almost exile, and eventually, beyond, in this ongoing work that takes place in between the lines, literally, of all released episodes of the BBC's hit show 'Sherlock!'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.1 First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> This work is going to be many chapters, and I may hit roadblocks with it. I may struggle to get through a particular section, or I may just be too busy to work on it at times, but rest assured, I'm worrying about it...constantly, and will work on it in every minute I can spare. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, and am so excited to finally be able to share any part of it! I sincerely hope you all enjoy, and please comment at any point with your own suggestions and head cannons! I will thank you in upcoming author notes and even gift you work, if you like!

Molly Hooper, Pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, was an intelligent woman. You could see it in her eyes in the right mood. She was well read, compassionate, and quite pretty. Her face was comprised of soft, graceful lines and her skin was perfect; clear thanks to genetics, and pale thanks to the ever-present cloud cover of her hometown of London. Her lips were thin and posey-colored, her nose turned up just a bit at the end to an adorable point, and her eyes were the luscious brown of milk chocolate. She took care of herself by eating healthy, and biking to work when possible, but treating herself regularly to a rich desert or a few drinks. She was fit, but not a rail, and would not aspire to be so.

Molly was, however, a romantic, as many of the human race tend to be. We want to believe in love, and lust, and the passion of a new relationship. Sadly, for Molly, she always seemed to gravitate toward the people who were least likely to give her this fairy tale ending. Enter Sherlock Holmes. Steely consulting detective who often worked with the force of New Scotland Yard to solve their more difficult cases. And by "difficult" she meant all of them except for maybe the cases of the smoking-gun, hand in the cookie jar variety. The most recent addition to the long line of men who would certainly not turn out to be her Prince Charming.

He was cold, crass, calculating, and if she was being honest, a complete cock most of the time. He was a brilliant man, and as such, did not tend to lend himself to stupidity or ignorance. Even simple thoughtlessness or lack of knowledge by omission of experiences seemed inexcusable to the self-proclaimed sociopath. It wasn't HIS fault if you hadn't taken the most advanced chemistry courses in college, you should know the affect this type of acid had on that organic matter. Shame on you! He was, remarkably, exactly as intelligent as he was beautiful. Remarkably because this man had an IQ of at least 140, depending on who you talked to, it was closer to 160, and yet, when you looked at him, if you tuned out his rambling deductions, he had a distractingly elegant, classic beauty, or maybe a man would prefer handsomeness, that defied traditional constructs of attractiveness.

His face was ovular, long, with cheekbones that could have been used to grate parmesan. His lips formed a perfect, pillowy cupid's bow that appeared both soft and supple. His hair he kept longer than the average man, curly and very dark brown. He tended to sort of , what would you call what he did? Ruffling? I guess that's as good a term as any. He would ruffle his hair when he was frustrated, or was having to over-think things. It was an endearing quality, and Molly was so transfixed by it at times, she found herself fantasizing about performing the ruffling on him. Not even sexually. Just to see what it felt like. His eyes were the color of the ocean, which may not seem like much of a description, but it is surprisingly accurate. Some days, they looked like the foam at the peaks of the ripples, others, the stormy blue at the heart of a hurricane, and every color in between. They ranged from blue to almost hazel, and were unique in the fact that there was a section of one iris that was a different color than the rest of it, the result of a rare condition called heterochromia. She hadn't asked him if it was an inherited condition. She didn't want to appear "creepy" for paying such close attention to him.

And at any rate, she hadn't had much opportunity for such small talk. It was basically just luck that they were even acquainted. Her mortuary just happened to be where NSY brought most of the cadavers they removed from crime scenes. That's how they came to meet. Sherlock's first case working with DI Lestrade, he came in bickering with the lawman.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"I wish you'd have called me directly to the crime scene, detective inspector. Evidence crucial to the case may have been disturbed, or even destroyed." He had said as he walked past her workstation in the cold room, eyes only for the corpse.

"I've told you, Mr. Holmes, there was no evidence at the scene. Anderson assured me that forensics got all they needed. The only reason I contacted you was because of the strange state of the remains."

"Anderson is an idiot! That's clear by the way he ties his shoes, and I only saw the man for three minutes! You can't possibly believe he's gotten everything. And your lot are far from observant. You may have missed the clue that solves the case! Washed it from the surface of the killing floor with the next rain. And God only knows what the staff here have already done to the remains!"

Molly took this personally. She was a professional, and quite good at her job! Whoever this man was, she wasn't going to let him get away with that statement.

"Now, I don't know who exactly you think you are, mate, but none of my team would have--"

And then she saw him. He turned his gaze on her, as if he was trying to burn a hole through her.

"I mean, erm, we haven't, umm, we've treated the remains with respect and cleanliness. If anything has been fouled up, it was not the fault of anyone at Bart's."

His beauty struck her hard in the face like a blow, and keeping her composure had never been more difficult.

"Well, Miss-"

"Hooper, Molly Hooper, lead pathologist." She held out her hand to shake his. He took it, and even through the leather of his gloves, she felt an ignition in her that she hadn't felt in quite some time.

"Miss Hooper, I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective working with DI Lestrade on a trial basis. I expect, if I agree to continue this type of work we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other."

"Oh, uh, yes, I'm here quite a lot, and--"

"Please don't make it a misery for me to be here. I really don't tolerate ignorant behavior in any form or fashion." He interrupted without care or consideration. "Well, I'll do my best, Mr. Holmes." She simpered. He looked at her with a complete lack of confidence in her claim, and turned around toward the slab. She was a total git. She cowered to the handsome man like a puppy confronted with a newspaper. Her mother had taught her better than that. She taught her to stand up for herself, no matter who she was standing at odds with. There was no disclaimer in the life lesson about breathtaking detectives who were so fiendishly intelligent that the coppers had to call him in to help on cases.

"Oy, what do you mean about YOU agreeing? It's US who have to agree to hire you on!"

"Don't be absurd, Lestrade, I decide what cases I take and what ones I turn down. I have a whole numeric rating system that puts a score or grade on any case, and if it doesn't rate high enough, I don't take. That's the deal. Whether you take it or leave it is of no consequence to me, whatsoever. But you know how frequently you're out of your depth, so I'll let you decide when exactly you need my help."

There was a pause, everyone was quiet, then Lestrade spoke up, as he knew he must.

"Alright then, Mr. Holmes, it's your show."

The consulting detective grinned a wide smug grin, and turned his attention to the slab.

 


	2. 1.2 An Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Molly agree to help Sherlock by letting her use his lab, morgue, and its deceased occupants for his cases and experiments? You're just going to have to keep reading to find out!

 

That first meeting was quite memorable, but what came after the examination of the remains was a total shock to her.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you've given us a lot to go on, and some excellent leads to follow up with! I'll keep you posted on the progress of the case."

"Or I could just read about it in the papers when you take all the credit for solving it. Whichever is more convenient for you, Lestrade." He said, sarcasm hanging from his every word like honey off the knife; Lestrade seeming oblivious to it.

"Very well, I'll consider that. And if we're gonna be working together, you can call me by my first name. Greg."

"I suppose I could do that. I've an uncle named Greg, or something like that. Shouldn't be too difficult for me to remember. And I suppose, if we're taking the formality out of it, you may call me Sherlock." 

"Okay, Sherlock. I'm sure I'll be in touch. Do you want a ride back to your flat, or…"

"No, thank you, George, I've got some things to discuss with Miss Hooper. I'll take a cab from here."

"It's…it's Greg." Lestrade said, nonplussed.

"Right. Still, I'll make my own way. Off you go." Lestrade turned, inclined his head to Molly, and exited the morgue in a haze of irritation.

Molly, finding herself alone with the man who'd basically just solved a case of homicide, felt her blood race through her veins, threatening hemorrhage. He stalked toward her with purpose, but what purpose she did not know. They'd just met, so there was little chance he'd be coming on to her that strongly at this point, although a bit of her, her adventurous alter-ego, wished he would. 

"Miss Hooper, " he began

"Molly, I suppose, if you can remember it." She teased.

"Right. I was hoping you could accommodate me here. I'm looking for a place to do some experiments. I've come to people in lines of work similar to yours, but they've been somewhat reluctant due to the nature of my work. Do you think you would have room for me on occasion?" There was a kind, playful glint on the surface of his eyes. A flirtatious glimmer giving her that much hope. She looked underneath the shell, though, and thought she saw daggers. It was unsettling, but beautiful at the same time.

"Umm, such as?" she asked, tentatively.

He took a big breath and began describing what he required.

"Well, I have a certain amount of my own equipment, but for some diagnostics, I would require access to some things that are a bit more sophisticated, as well as various testing solutions, solvents, and serums used in your average, well-stocked hospital laboratory."

Molly was with him so far. "Alright, I think we can do that!"

"Great, but this is the part that seems to trip people up. Molly, you know as well as I do that the death of a body doesn't necessarily mean the death of all of the cells in it. Postmortem conditions can be crucial to the solution of any case. Sometimes, I need test subjects who don't mind the rough treatment. Do you see where I'm going?"

"I think?" Molly couldn't help but allow her mind to wander to a scenario where the detective was treating HER roughly. She had to shake herself to present. She hoped fervently that he did not have some sort of necrophilic intentions.

"I need access to flesh, tissue, and bone that I can test, manipulate and abuse in order to come up with my deductions. Can you furnish me with such…materials?"

'Materials,' she thought to herself. The reduction of the human vehicle to essentially salvage was a bit sickening. Even in her line of work, dealing with the dead every hour, she still held her respect for human life. But as she thought the proposal through, she wondered why it would be a problem. There were dozens of John and Jane Does coming in all the time. No back-story, no ID, no relatives. They did what they could to try to get them picked up by family for proper services, but it didn't always work out. And if it were her, she thought, and she didn't have any family who'd want to send her off properly, she'd want her death to be of use. She'd want to have made a difference. She would be thrilled to know that her body, or a part of it, had brought justice to someone else, if she couldn't get it for herself. 

"I can do that."

"Can you?! Oh, that would be brilliant. Thank you, Molly. I'll be back in touch. Here's my card. I prefer to text. Send me your name when you have a moment so I can contact you when I need you. Please, refrain from those pointless "How's your day" texts, and for the love of God, no drunk dialing or texting. I'm not interested in having a social life, and don't foresee that changing in the near future. Good evening." And he walked out with a flourish of his long, wool coat.

She knew it already. He was going to be trouble. Not just professional trouble. She could probably lose her job, as well as her license for doing the things he would ask her to do. No, much more than professional trouble. Emotional trouble. The kind of trouble that has kept Ben and Jerry's in business. Her heart would be broken by this man. Maybe more than once. She'd have to try to put him out of her mind. She examined the card. A simple, serif font, maybe Times, graced the plain white surface, reading:

 

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

Phone: +44-020-7938-6719 (Please text)

[www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk)

 

She entered the number into her mobile and typed "Molly Hooper, Bart's Pathologist." into the message line. She hesitated. This could be the biggest mistake of her life. She should not agree to help him, no matter how she justified it to herself. She should erase it all, throw away the card in the nearest bin, and avoid him like a pariah the next time he had business here.

She pocketed the card, hit the send button, and continued the work she was doing before she knew there was such a profession as "consulting detective."


	3. 1.3 The Cream of the Crop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's use of a riding crop drives Molly to boldness, however unsuccessfully, and finds her meeting a new co-worker in the break room. Maybe not all of the men she fell for were sociopaths! Maybe, but the proverbial jury is still out.

Several months had passed. Molly spent several hours over those months watching Sherlock deduce and experiment and had given him several "samples" to take home to experiment upon. He was usually cool and distant, unless he had a particularly gruesome or difficult request of her. She actually liked those, though she hated to admit it to herself. The flirtation, for lack of a better term, was a means to an end for him, but it was still thrilling, even though she knew he wasn't doing it for the reasons she wished he was. He had texted her earlier the current day, asking her how she was, but immediately going into what he needed. 

"Molly, how are you today? I need to conduct some vital studies on a corpse, preferably over 60yo, and as recently dead as you can manage. I'll be there in 45 minutes depending on traffic. -SH"

These "studies" as he called them would, without a doubt, be rather deplorable. Otherwise, he would never have bothered beginning with pleasantries. She had learned quickly that he had no use for those. She remembered a particularly wretched request for a severed head that had almost been an invitation to dinner. Almost.

"I think I have the perfect subject. See you soon. xMolly"

She tended to sign her texts with a kiss, but in this case, she worried it may be taken the wrong way. Or rather, the right, but unprofessional way. She couldn't be flirting with this man. Not that it was against the rules to date a colleague, and he wasn't even technically a colleague. He didn't work at Bart's. Actually…why shouldn't she take a leap? Why shouldn't she be proactive and try to woo the man she fancied? What could possibly go wrong?

She had it all plotted out. She was simply going to ask him out for coffee. That was a casual thing that even friends could do. Low pressure. Less of a time commitment than dinner. That's what she'd do. She heard the door open and stepped away from her work station to greet Sherlock.

"Hi!" she said, an undercurrent of giddiness for which she loathed herself. Why couldn't she keep it together around this man?

"Molly, hello, you have my subject?"

"Yep! Right over here! So how've ya been?"

"Fine." He smiled, politely. Adding as an afterthought, "thank you" and "yourself?"

Molly could tell he was just as uninterested as ever in chit-chat, so a simple "good." was her only reply.

"Here we are." Molly said, indicating the long black bag on the stainless steel plinth.

Sherlock walked over to the top of the bag and unzipped it about a third of the way, an analyzing sniff escaping his nostrils.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. 67. Natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." She reminisced, pleasantly. And why not? Marvin had lived a good, full life, and died peacefully in his sleep. She thought that's how she'd like to go.

"Fine, we'll start with the riding crop." She was a little shocked, but it wasn't the worst thing she had seen him do to a corpse.

"Umm, we don't have a ri--"

"Oh, it's fine, I've brought mine."

She stood for a moment, dumbstruck. He had his own riding crop…what for? Did he have equine hobbies? Because if not…all sorts of naughty images came to Molly's mind. Images unbidden, of Sherlock in very provocative leather trousers, maybe no shirt, holding the riding crop that he'd just pulled from beneath his coat, scowling down over her own mostly nude body, kneeling before him, bound and gagged, and telling her that she'd been a very bad girl and needed to be punished. Cool it a bit, Molly. You'll get yourself riled up. Get outta there.

"I'm just gonna do some work in the observation area. Gimme a shout if you need anything from me." Hoping she didn't put TOO much sexual subtext into the statement.

She walked out of the autopsy theater and into the observation area, keen to watch him work, as always. She was not prepared for what she saw. Sherlock held the crop tightly in his hand and began brandishing it at the stiff as if he were killing snakes. He was relentless, ferocious, and had never looked more dangerous. Why did it have to be such a turn-on? She pulled a tube of lipstick, in a shade that always bolstered her confidence, from the pocket of her lab coat and applied it in front of the nearest reflective surface. When it looked as if he was winding down, she joined him again.

"So, bad day was it?" her attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. It was more for her benefit than his, anyway! She thought it might soothe her nerves. She was mistaken.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes; a man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished--" she began nervously, and was, of course, interrupted.

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." He furrowed his brow, as if attempting to make deductions about her. He didn't normally voice these unless prompted.

"I uh, I refreshed it a bit." He noticed her lipstick. He noticed. It had worked! This would happen! And then, who knows! China patterns, baby names, homeownership! The sky was the limit, and it all seemed possible because he'd noticed the lipstick!

He glanced at her sideways, as if he wasn't convinced she was being totally forthcoming, and inhaled. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" She'd done it. Oh god, oh god, she'd done it. She'd asked Sherlock out for coffee. She had to work hard to keep the pride from her face! She was hoping for 'oh, yes, of course, Molly! I'm so glad you asked, I've been wanting to ask you myself for ages, but I've been shy! Let's go tonight! As soon as your shift is over.' She expected 'no, Molly, thank you, but you're in no way beautiful or intelligent enough to spend excess time with me.' It broke her heart to think about that one. Furthest from her mind was what he actually said in response.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." And he swept out of the room grabbing his coat and scarf as he went, leaving Molly alone to writhe in the aftershock of her emotional rollercoaster ride.

"...okay." She managed to squeak out after he was already halfway out the door.

She almost wished he had flatly rejected her. At least that way she had a hope! At least if he said 'no,' he understood what she wanted and could eventually, maybe, she hoped, change his mind and agree to go out with her. This response told her that she was not even on his radar, romantically! Did he even have a radar? She was beginning to wonder.

She walked, somewhat aimlessly to the break room nearest the lab where she knew she'd find him. Black. Two sugars. That's how he liked his coffee. How did he like his women. Maybe he liked them more plain-faced. She grabbed a napkin from the nearby counter, wiped her lips with it, and threw it away. She looked up and was startled to see a man standing next to the bin. He was slender, and just a bit taller than she was. He had short, clean-cut, dark hair, and his face, well, she could only describe it as "pretty!" Even if he was a man, he was just so pretty. And he was dressed rather nice! He wore a well-fitting navy polo, which accentuated the slim, yet muscular body beneath. His khaki slacks hung perfectly at his hips and just buckled at his instep where she could see a pair of pristinely clean, black Chuck Taylors. Business casual with a bit of rockabilly rebel thrown in. How adorable!

"I quite liked that shade on you." He said, kindly.

"Oh! Ehem, thanks!" She said, shyly. She was sure she blushed! Damn her cheeks!

"Why'd you take it off?" He was showing interest! Oh, this was promising! She had to reign herself in again! She didn't want to get her hopes up this time. Had Sherlock asked the same question, she would have jumped to put it back on. But she responded to this fellow with aloof distance.

"I, uh, got tired of it." That sounded feasible, right? She could tell he wasn't buying it,

"Oh. I'm Jim! Jim Martin. Just started in IT." He held his hand out to her and she took it, and shook.

"Molly Hooper. I'm a pathologist in the mortuary." She was always nervous to tell people her profession for the first time. Sometimes she just told people she worked in the lab. That avoided the 'queen of the dead' stares and the handshakes cut off with disgust as if she carried the death with her like a pathogen.

"Really!? That's amazing! I can't believe they keep you shut away in the morgue. Lucky bunch of stiffs, get to hang out with YOU all evening!" He was trying to flirt with her. It wasn't that it wasn’t nice, but she just wasn't in the mood.

"Ha, okay, Mr. Casanova, you've clearly suffered a head injury if you're thinking that cheddar is gonna work on this girl." She imagined Sherlock saying the same words, and got butterflies at the thought!

"Sorry, had to try. You're really quite lovely, though. Sincerely." His grin was so disarming that she almost let slide the ridiculous line.

"Well, thank you, I suppose." She was the worst at taking compliments. Always had been.

"I better be off. The guy who's training me just stepped out for a smoke, and he's bound to be back soon. It was nice to meet you, Molly! Hope to see you around the trash bins!" He winked and walked out the nearby door.

"Bye." She muttered, a bit untimely, but he still heard her and turned around to grin at her before disappearing around the corner. She smiled. 'See,' she told herself, 'not all guys are complete aresholes! Some are actually pretty decent, and seem to kinda like you!' It was nice to have some interaction with a guy, a good-looking one, too, that wasn't flirting with ulterior motives. She stirred the sugar into the coffee she had poured, though she couldn't remember doing it…and come to think of it, she couldn't remember how much sugar exactly she'd added…was it just two, or did she add four? There were dozens of packets in the bin, so she couldn't just see what she'd thrown away. Rather than make a new cup, she pretended that she did it right, waste not, want not, and strode proudly from the room. If it wasn't good enough, he could get his own damned coffee next time! Served him right!

As she walked into the lab, she noticed Mike Stamford, a professor at the school there, another bloke, about her height, blondish, pleasant, nice looking, with a cane, and Sherlock, who greeted her relatively warmly.

"Ah, Molly! Coffee! Thank you!" he took the cup from her, graciously, but then scowled a bit. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." That wasn't quite true, though, she thought as she imagined Jim complimenting the shade.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too... small now." He said as he walked away from her and to the work station he was using. How dare he? How dare he be so totally oblivious and then make such comments about the aesthetics of her face? He had no right to behave this way! It was infuriating! Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Maybe she was overreacting. She couldn't help it! He made her so livid with his mercurial and unknowable manner! She was going to give him a piece of her mind for that statement, and his behavior in general today.

"...okay."

'You disgust me!' she reprimanded herself. She hung her head, turned, and left the lab, humiliated in front of the other men, and utterly pissed off that Sherlock affected her so! She considered popping down to IT, ya know, just to ask about a problem she'd been having with one of the desktops in the lab, but thought better of it. Jim could woo her, if he wanted. She had given up on asking guys out, at least for a while! It didn't work out as she hoped, good, bad, or really weird. Let the men do the work. She was going to forget about it and get a cat!


	4. 1.4 Bad Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relaxing night in turns into a chilly, wet walk to Bart's in the middle of the night when Molly gets a text from Sherlock Holmes.

Cats. What funny creatures they are. She'd just brought her new friend, Toby home from the shelter. He was so handsome! White with hazel patches that had veins of black here and there. Apparently, that's what you did if you were her age and single. Start a blog: check! (Although she was rubbish at computers, seriously!) Get a cat: check! Dress like a maiden aunt: well, check, but that was just the style she happened to like! She only had left "develop a borderline unhealthy love of wine, especially the dry dark reds." She was stuck at a Riesling on the sweetness scale. But Toby was acclimating well to life in her flat, even after just a few days. She lie on the couch watching telly and idly scratching his head when she heard her text alert. She reached to grab it from the coffee table on which her bare feet rested, apparently appalling Toby, who's replying "meow" was audibly put out and offended.

"Oi, it's not like I wounded you! I just shifted! Finicky git!" She really did love him, but they already had this "Oscar and Felix" routine down to a science. What an odd couple they made, indeed. And speaking of odd, the text she received was from the prince of peculiarity himself.

 

"Are you at work? -SH"

 

"What do you need? ~M"

 

"I need to run some tests tonight, but I may need your help. What time is your shift over? -SH"

 

She shouldn't offer, she should tell him she wasn't working tonight. That she'd just brought Toby home a few days ago and wasn't keen to leave him unless she had to just yet.

 

"See you in 30? ~M" Good job, Molly…way to stand your ground, not be a doormat, and show him who needs whom!

 

"30 min, yes. -SH"

 

She made sure Toby had food and water since she wasn't sure how long she'd be gone, changed her pyjama bottoms for nice jeans, and threw a cardigan on over her camisole top. She slipped on some flats, grabbed her coat and bag, and walked down into the light London drizzle.

 

Apparently, all the cabs were off duty tonight. How convenient. It was nearly one on a weeknight though, so what could she expect. At least it wasn't far to Bart's from her place. And she'd get a bit of exercise. She would, however, need to grab a coffee once she arrived! It was rather chilly.

 

20 minutes and she was walking through the doors. Bless the heating in this gorgeous old building! She felt the warmth embrace her like a lover, as a wide grin connected her ruddy cheeks. This was one of her favorite feelings. Feeling warmth after forgetting how utterly frozen you were. Like that first spoonful of soup or sip of tea, when the pleasant heat just drenches you to your bones, and you feel as though you're home. Really home. She sloshed down the hall towards her break room, the drizzle having turned into a light rain about ten minutes into the walk and drowning her shoes. Someone had already started a pot! How lovely! She'd have to leave a note! She poured some creamer into the bottom of her cup, then the coffee over it. She skipped the sugar. It was bad enough she was having caffeine at this time of night, she didn't want to further antagonize her nervous system. Besides, for some reason, adding a sweetener to the mix did not always settle well with her, and she couldn't do her work with anything but an iron stomach. She wasn't sure what type of experiment Sherlock would need her help with, but she thought she should prepare for the worst.

 

She made her way to her section of the lab and turned on the little space heater she kept under her desk. For safety purposes, they weren't really supposed to have them, but maintenance didn't harass her about it unless she was absent-minded enough to leave it on when she wasn't there. She cuddled up close to the desktop trying to trap as much of the heat around her feet as possible. She fired her computer up to check her email and her blog and sipped her coffee contently as she waited for Sherlock. He had another five minutes.

 

And like clockwork, exactly 30 minutes from the time she sent the message stating "30 minutes," he was walking through the door. She should have set an actual timer, just as an experiment.

 

"Hello, Molly. How are you this evening?" he said, brightly, almost like singing.

 

"I'm fine, thank you. How're…" she didn't get the chance to finish her sentence. He was in deduction mode.

 

"You weren't down to work tonight, were you? You were at home, ready for bed, and playing with your new cat!"

 

She was astonished. Obviously. "Umm, yes. I was…but…how did y--"

 

"You're drenched and red-faced, presumably from a chilly, wet walk to work, indicating that you couldn't catch a cab. It only started raining about 15 minutes ago. Your normal shift would have started hours earlier, when a warm cab would have been available and long before the precipitation had begun. Your hair is plaited, but not like it normally is, it's been laid upon, and excuse me for noticing but you're not wearing a bra. You've been comfortable at home for hours, and you've got short, white hair on your camisole beneath your cardigan, obviously from petting a cat, but there aren't any hairs to speak of on your coat, so clearly, you haven't had this cat for very long. The question is why didn't you tell me you weren't down to work tonight?"

 

She hadn't breathed through the whole deduction. Little parts of it made her heart race a little faster, like his notice of her bra being missing and really his observation of her body in general.

 

"Ok, first, as you know, that's all unsettlingly true. Second, I have tomorrow off, too, and don't have anything going on early. I don't mind to help if it's important. Is it important?" Pointless question really, --why would it not be important--preceded by a somewhat inaccurate statement. If Sherlock needed something, or wanted something, or had a mild interest in doing, seeing, or acquiring absolutely anything, that meant it was important enough for Molly to go a bit out of her way in order to procure it. She was just like this for her friends. No mountain too high. Her feelings for Sherlock were moot. She was just that kind of person toward those about whom she cared most.

 

"If you consider my sanity important, then yes, vital." He pulled two small baggies from his pocket, one tied with a blue twisty, and one with a red one. "I need to find out which one of these pills contains a poison, we can't mix them up, and we've also only got one try. Can we do it?"

 

"I'm sure we can. Do you know what kind of poison?"

 

"Cicutoxin, according to these files on the last four victims it took." He plopped the four files on her desk.

 

Jeffrey Patterson, James Phillimore, Beth Davenport, and Jennifer Wilson were the names on the file tabs. Molly's eyes widened. Four victims, killed in the same way, appearing to be suicides from what she could glean by glancing at the reports within.

 

"So, are we going to trace it somehow? Find the killer? Solve the case?" She said, disturbing exuberance tinting her words.

 

"No. No need. The case is solved. The murderer is dead. And a much bigger quarry has crossed my path. A ghost, and a rumour. No, this test is simply to find out if I'm as clever as I believe myself to be. Should prove conclusively that which we all already know, but I must know for sure, or I will go mad." The more he talked about it, the madder he came to look.

 

"Let's get to work, then!" she took one of the baggies from him and removed the pill, holding it up to the light, lengthwise, between forefinger and thumb. She walked it over to one of the work stations and began milling about gathering test supplies, and he did the same. As they began the testing process, she attempted conversation.

 

"So what are we trying to accomplish here?"

 

"Oh, not important." And continued working.

 

Molly halted her process. This attitude infuriated her. She was doing him a massive favor and he was repaying her with exasperated disinterest.

 

"I disagree, Sherlock. A lot, in fact. I risk pneumonia, give up sleep, and postpone time with little Toby, and you don't think that deserves a bit of explanation?"

 

Sherlock looked up at her, startled. She knew he wasn't quite used to this version of Molly. He was going to have to acclimate! He sighed, and it was almost a huff.

 

"Alright. I've just finished a case. One of the trickier ones I've come across. This man, a cabbie, kidnaps his fares, takes them to remote places they wouldn't normally be, and threatens them at what they think is gunpoint to choose between these two pills. They take one, and he takes the other. He knows which one is poison, but they, obviously don't. He actually doesn't really care whether or not he dies, because he has a brain aneurysm that could take his life at any moment. He's just trying to win because the more lives he takes, the more money his children will receive from the person who sponsored him, which is another aspect of the game we won't go into right now. Are you following me so far?"

 

"I am," Molly affirmed, but she was working hard to keep up with his rapid fire, "please, go on!"

 

"I had the pleasure of spending some time in this man's company for a short time before he was shot, and got him to play the game with me. The 'gun' he was threatening those people with was just a replica lighter. No live rounds. There would have been no consequences for them calling his bluff. But he played them and got them to take the poison pill while he took the safe one. I want to see if I won this last round. He was shot before we could take our medicine, as it were."

 

"Isn't that cheating? Aren't you supposed to never know?"

 

"In the fairy tales, Molly, sure, but if I can use modern technology and chemistry to my favor, I will. No sense letting yourself go insane over something that is easy enough to find out with the proper assets at your disposal."

 

She wasn't sure if being referred to as an "asset" was flattering or insulting. She'd hold her verdict until the project was over.

 

"Well, what if he had built up an immunity to the poison by taking small doses of it for a long time?"

 

"Off-hand, I don't know if this particular toxin can be taken to that purpose. I suppose we'll know that's the case if both pills turn up poisonous." He seemed a bit irritated. Like making the statement that he didn't know a fact was causing him physical discomfort. She was amused, but kept it inside.

 

They continued working.

 

He exhaled with finality. "Pill number one has turned up cicutoxin in lethal amounts. What about to pill two?"

 

"Almost done!" She said. She was working on the pill that was clearly, by his smug grin, the one he had chosen in the game. He was clearly on edge for the remainder of Molly's silence. Soon, she backed away from her station and removed her protective glasses and gloves.

 

"So you really want to know? You won't be more satisfied just hoping and believing you've won?" She asked, knowing that he would want to know, but not being able to resist taking the piss out of him.

 

"Molly, you know the kind of man I am. You know I consider both hope and blind belief to be as much of a fool's game as faith. I believe in science, logic, deductive reasoning. That is my religion. Show me the results, or so help me--"

 

"God? So help you God? No man of faith, you claim to be, but it's hard, isn't it? Not using those words? And even if you claim you weren't going to add it there at the end, it's implied. Everyone knows the saying. Your omission doesn't negate the plea. Tell me what you'd think about this game you're certain you've won if these test results didn't exist. Knowing even what you do about that first pill.

 

"I would believe I was right. Are you happy?"

 

"Almost. What would you do if that opinion you held looked to be a little wobbly? Wouldn't you continue to hope you were right?"

 

"I suppose…but it wouldn't help anything!" he agreed, reluctantly.

 

"But it does! Sherlock, everyone should have hope. It's what keeps us going when things look bleak so that we don't cry or give up. It may not be the most logical thing to do, but sometimes it keeps us sane." Although in her case, she thought to herself, looking at the man before her, that there was a certain hope she held that was slowly driving her mad. She'd leave that out, though. He stood staring at her, speechless and a little baffled at her stalwartness. He waited, almost patiently, but JUST almost, for her to reveal her results.

 

"There's no toxin in this pill. You were correct. You won the game."

 

He jumped a bit, grinning and shaking his fists in a strange, oddly reserved victory dance. "Of course! I knew I did! Thank you for helping me prove it!" he looked almost as if he would draw her up into a hug, but at the last minute shook her hand instead. She had hoped, but then, knew that was as crazy a hope as anyone had ever had.

 

"You're very welcome, Sherlock! Happy to help! Any more tests to run?"

 

"No, I think I'll be off! Care to share a cab?"

 

"You don't really think we'll be able to get a cab, do you? It's half three in the morning!"

 

"I think I can manage one, yes." He said, confidently.

 

"You live in the opposite direction as I do, don't you?" she couldn't remember if she should know where he lived, or if that was creepy, so she added the 'don't you' just to be safe.

 

"I don't know, but it's the least I can do for your trouble." he looked out the window at the rain pattering against it at a slight angle and much harder than it had been when they'd first arrived, "Plus, you surely don't want to walk home in THIS." He nodded out the window. "You really will catch your death."

 

"Alright, then, let's get to it!" She grabbed her spare umbrella from her bottom desk drawer. He'd be at the cab-getting for a while, even if he was successful, which she doubted, so an umbrella would probably come in most handy. They walked out the front doors, and Molly had barely locked the parasol open when she saw a black cab pull up under Sherlock's outstretched arm. She stood, slack-jawed as he opened the door, a soft smirk gracing his face. She walked forward, cordially, even having been proved wrong, and climbed into the cab, sliding over so Sherlock could follow in behind her.

 

"28 Martin Lane" Molly told the cabbie as Sherlock closed the door behind him. The driver nodded, signaled, and pulled away from the curb and onto the road.

 

They weren't in the rain for long, but it was long enough to dampen Sherlock's dark hair. He ran his fingers through it, then did the ruffling thing Molly loved, trying to expel some of the moisture held between strands. She marveled at this every time she saw him do it. Such a simple act, but so sensual. Like the way he sometimes talked with his hands when he got really excited, or, well, if she was honest with herself, basically any action he performed. Even the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he sat thinking was as inviting as any bedroom eyes she'd ever seen.

 

She had to think of something so the urge to maul him right there in the back seat of the cab did not become too overwhelming.

 

"So do you have any cases lined up?" She asked, mostly making small talk, and not expecting him to have much to say.

 

"I've got a few requests in my inbox, but I'm not sure if any of them would hold my interest. People get desperate about the oddest things, don't they? One of the messages says "Lost cat" in the subject line. I'll have to take that one eventually, I suppose, if the murders run out!" He half smiled "It's not like it's a dog. Dogs are companions, cats are just…"

 

"What are they?" she asked defensively. She liked cats, and wasn't going to have him laying into them like they were criminals.

 

"Well, there's not necessarily anything wrong with them, but they're so aloof. They just lay about and expect you to keep their dishes full, and what do you get in return? A cold shoulder. That's any cat I've ever interacted with, anyway."

 

"Well, they may not be as affectionate, but at least I know Toby isn't going to knock me to the ground when I get home."

 

"There is that, I suppose." He said, grinning, conceding the discussion. There were a few minutes of amicable silence, and Molly knew she only had precious few more with him tonight. She had to make them count.

 

"Sherlock."

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Listen, I know you probably don't, but I hope you do, or will, or…umm, anyway, starting over. Sherlock, would you like to get coffee with me sometime?"

 

"We have coffee together all the time, Molly."

 

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. Like proper coffee at a shop. No work piled around us. Just you and me, coffee and maybe a scone or some cake. Discussing our lives. Learning new things about each other. I think that would be nice."

 

"Molly, you don't want to get to know me much better, I can assure you. I know me better than anyone, and I wish I was just an acquaintance with myself. If that. It's not that it wouldn't be nice, because I'm sure initially you would think so. But frankly, very few things hold my attention enough to suit anyone, and I am sure I would lose interest and hurt your feelings. I wouldn't want that, so I think it's just kinder and better to prevent that at this point." He looked at her sympathetically.

 

She was hanging on his words, turned in her seat, facing him. She was metaphorically vulnerable to the wounding of which his words were capable. And wounded she was, but not mortally, not crippled. She could hear a softness in his voice. He wasn't saying 'never,' just 'not now.' At least, that's how it sounded to her. Maybe it was her foolish hope taking over again, but that was preferable to the alternative. The corrosion of her soul from the inside out. That was what the hope was protecting her from.

 

"I understand what you're saying. And I respect that."

 

"Thank you, Molly." he smiled a little.

 

"May I ask you a personal question?" she inquired, tentatively.

 

"You may ask; I may not answer." he said, apprehensively.

 

"Do you ever let anyone in there? I know there's more to you than the brilliant exterior. You same as admitted it a minute ago. But does anyone breach that armour you keep tight around yourself and really see you?"

 

He looked out the window, not focusing on any particular point in the distance.

 

"You don't have to hide that from everyone. Some people, maybe. But you don't have to wear a mask all the time. You can take the armour off sometimes. You really should, or you run the risk of forgetting who you really are at the expense of some form of acceptance. You can't please everyone all the time, or even some of the time. You have to be you, and you have to be happy with who you are. That's enough for anyone. It's enough for me."

 

He looked down at his long fingers where they sat in his lap. She felt the cab slow, and heard the turn signal start to click. They were almost to her place.

 

"Just think about it, Sherlock. Even if it's not me you let in, it should be someone. Someone you trust. Think about it. Please."

 

She spoke as matter-of-factly as she could, keeping the desperation from her tone with some difficulty.

 

"28 Martin Lane, folks." Said the cabbie. She'd forgotten about him during this intimate conversation. She was sure he'd heard worse.

 

"Keep the meter running." Sherlock said, indifferently. He got out and held the door for Molly. He shut it and followed her to her door.

 

She fiddled nervously in her bag for her keys. She finally located them, clumsily pulled them out, found the right key, and unlocked the door.

 

"Thank you, Molly. For your concern. Even though I am sure that I'll be alright, I'll think about what you said." he said, kindly.

 

"I hope you do. Thanks for the ride. Goodnight, Sherlock." and as if it was another person piloting her body, she stretched up on her toes, and kissed him on his beautiful cheek. Her eyes never met his. She turned quickly, entering through the open door, and closed it behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, processing what she'd done. It's a simple gesture between friends, but what if you want to be more than friends. Is a kiss on the cheek just that? That chaste kiss held all the worry, passion, care, and love she had for the recipient, and she hoped he could feel a fraction of it. She tasted his skin on her lips, and it just made her hungry for more of him. Why couldn't he just be like any other bloke? Why was he such a tough nut to crack? Why did he have to be so enigmatic and unknowable?

 

The answer, Molly thought, was elementary. If he was that guy, he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes was the man she loved.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Part One Epilogue

 

The detective stood on the stoop of 28 Martin Lane, dumbstruck. Molly had planted a tender, quick kiss on his cheek, and he could still feel the spot where her lips had lighted on his skin. He turned confusedly to walk back to the waiting cab. He entered in a daze barely remembering to close the door behind him.

 

"Where to, mate? Or were you staying?" he asked suggestively.

 

"Oh, umm, no, 221b Baker Street." he choked out.

 

"If you say so. Seems like a waste to me, though, mate. She's got a torch for you if I ever seen one."

 

He glared at the driver, indicating that this was an unwelcome intrusion into his personal life. The cabbie must have understood, because he remained silent for the duration of the drive.

 

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who charged into the fray of the war that was a love life. He was not one to complicate a life that already suffered complexity from so many other aspects of his personality and relationships. He was warring constantly with himself. His bad habits, some more destructive than others. But even with all the vices he suffered, love was the one thing that terrified him. Relying on a drug, or a cigarette, and whatever the next fix was, that wasn't a problem, but relying on another person was a nightmare. He walked up the steps to his flat and into his living room. His new flatmate was seated in the red chair next to the fireplace.

 

"You're in late. You do this often? Out till the wee hours?"

 

"Not often, but sometimes. When there's something worth staying out for." he said, grinning enigmatically.

 

"How do you mean?" the seated man asked.

 

"As it turns out, I'm brilliant about some things, but about others, I'm rather inexpert. Not the more important things, but all the same…" he hung up his coat and scarf, and walked through the sitting room and kitchen, and into his bedroom saying "good night" to his co-habitator, but thinking about Molly and all he might be forced to do to keep her from falling more in love with him. He wasn't sure he'd have the resolve to do all of them, but he'd have to try.

 

End Part One


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